Tilting At Windmills
by Crackinois
Summary: This is a spin off from my Jealousy fic, following Chris' recovery from the shooting and how she comes to terms with where the events of her life have led her.  Minimal Jane/Maura.  Full author's note inside.
1. Footfalls' Echo

**Author's note:** This is a spinoff from my Jealousy fic. It is entirely focused on my original character Christine "Chris" Kelly. It is not a Rizzles fic. I am stating this upfront. Maura and Jane will play a very small and secondary role in this story. This fic will follow Chris' recovery from the shooting at the end of Jealousy as she struggles to come to terms with where the events of her life have led her. I am posting this on FFN because Maura and Jane and the Rizzoli & Isles universe will be referenced and because many readers were interested in seeing an original Chris piece.

**Tilting At Windmills**

**CH 1: Footfalls' Echo**

There was something about the first big blizzard of the season, when everything was pristine and unadulterated white. In a few hours the plows would come and clear the street, scraping the snow into mounds at the corner of the block that would, as the season wore on, turn into icy stalagmite-esque sculptures at the entrance of the neighborhood. Her father would get home from his shift, he was on the evening rotation, and complain that the city had _intentionally plowed the goddamn driveway in again_. She giggled as she pictured his face, wind burned and red from exertion as he shoveled, a string of curse words spilling out of his mouth. She wasn't allowed to say the words out loud; she had once by accident…

_Cael! Stop it_! _Her arm swung wildly at her brother, missing him completely but making a solid connection with her glass of milk, sending it flying across the table and floor in a white-wash mess. Dammit! It just slipped out. Porcelain cheeks flushed crimson with horror and she gasped, blue eyes widening as she looked up at her father. __**What did you say?**__ His fingers more than easily wrapped completely around her upper arm, squeezing tightly she began to cry before his other hand even made contact with her backside in a series of swift and serious whacks. The dull and stinging thud he meted out echoed through the otherwise silent room. I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I won't say it again. __**Damn right you won't.**_

She pressed her nose against the frosty glass of the window and waited. The winter doesn't seem so cold when you're a child, when there are snowmen to build and snow angels to make and snowball fights with an older brother to be won.

_Christine_…red hair, blue eyes, like hers, the older woman squatted down next to the chair as she slid down from her perch. _Gloves, baby, you always forget your gloves_. Hot pink mittens with snowflakes on them and little puff balls that hung from a string at the wrist were slid onto her outstretched hands. She could remember exactly what the mittens looked like. But her mother's face…there was only red hair and blue eyes.

Cael was never any good at snowball fights, even though he was two years older she beat him every time. Giggles and overly dramatic screeches filled the crisp neighborhood air as she launched projectile after projectile at him until thoroughly exhausted they both collapsed into a drift next to the driveway.

_You almost hit me in the eye with that last one, Chrissie_, he giggled and swatted a loose dusting of snow at her.

She turned her head and watched as a light breeze caused some of her brother's strawberry blonde locks to flutter. _Your hair's sticking up. Mommy told you to wear a hat._ The cold seeped in through her snow pants and coat, but she didn't care; it felt good. Exhilarating. Besides, it was a lot easier for Santa to get there if there was snow. Santa. She smiled; Christmas was just around the corner.

_Cael, Christine_…her mother's voice called from the porch. An airy alto, with a smooth cadence, she loved the sound of her mother's voice, particularly when she sang. The slight holdover of an accent from her childhood spent in Galway faded in and out as she spoke but always disappeared in song; it fascinated Chris.

The two siblings sat up as the plow trudged by, crinkling their noses in tandem at the grating sound of the metal on pavement as it swept the crystalline precipitation away.

_Hot chocolate won't be hot if you two stay out here much longer…_

_More marshmallows?_ Chris nodded with a toothy grin as elegant fingers dropped three more tiny white treats into her mug. The gelatinous, spongy cylinders bobbed in the piping hot creamy liquid, soaking in the moisture and expanding past their natural shape. A curious finger poked at them, submerged them under chocolatey waves; Chris giggled as they floated back up and breached the surface.

_Drink it, don't play with it_, her mother chastised, setting down a plate with toast and jam in front of her.

The front door rattled and slammed and the familiar slew of post-blizzard curse words rumbled down the hall from the living room. _Is that bacon?_ His hunger overruled his anger at the snowplow. _Christine! Don't you give that dog a piece of bacon!_ Too late. The gargantuan black and tan point German Shepherd had trotted into the kitchen and gingerly closed his teeth around the strip of offered meat, carefully removing it from between tiny fingers. She ducked her head down under the table and smiled mischievously as a long tongue washed her face. Chris pressed her finger to slightly cold chapped lips; _Shhh, Zeke, don't tell._

A large hand came to rest on the top of her hand. _Did you give that dog bacon?_ She pursed her lips, trying to hide the smirk and shook her head no. _Mmhmm._ Her father took the plate of offered food and leaned against the counter as he ate. Chris watched as his pinky finger purposefully thumped a strip of bacon to the floor. _Oops_, he said with a wink as the dog scrambled to take care of the mess.

_You're late; the roads must be bad._ How did she even remember this conversation?

_First big snow, the plows are just a little disorganized. Lot of wrecks…morons that tried to drive through the storm._

_I have errands to run, maybe I should wait?_

Chris looked up from her breakfast and smiled. _Stay home, we can build a snow Zeke._

_A snow Zeke?_ Clara Kelly laughed, a gentle laugh that rolled like honey across her cheek as she leaned down to kiss her daughter. _Not a snowman?_

_Everyone builds snowmen. I wanna build a snow Zeke._

_The plows are all out now; roads should be fine_. He tossed his plate in the sink, _time for shut-eye. Zeke, hier._

* * *

><p><em>Daddy. Daddy!<em> Her whisper grew with the frustration of trying to shake her father awake, tiny hands digging harder and harder into his shoulder as she pushed. _Daddy! Wake up!_

_Goddammit! Christine!_ His body jerked up from the mattress, sending her stumbling backwards to the floor. _What have I told you about waking me up_ _after work_, he growled.

She sniffled, mouth hanging open as she panted for air from the fright. _There are policemen here._

The rest was mostly a blur, hands under her arms hoisting her onto his hip. Her arms looping around his neck as her cheek fell to his shoulder. He never picked her up.

_Joe_…the officer's voice quaked as he spoke; he had tears in his eyes. Chris looked away, let her tangled copper locks fall in front of her eyes as she buried her face into her father's heated neck. _There's been an accident…Clara…_

_Wake up. Wake up._ It wasn't real; it couldn't be real. The ticking sound like a hectic metronome grew louder and louder, bubbling up from her chest and filling her ears with only its rhythm and the sound of crying.

* * *

><p>"Wake up, Chris, wake up," Cael patted her lightly on the cheek.<p>

The thumping turned to ticking turned to blips as Chris' eyes fought to open, tears and crust trying with all their might to keep them closed. She swallowed, looked up at her brother and then to the flashing lights and erratic blips of the hospital monitor, which began to calm from her subconscious anxiety.

"You were having a dream…looked like a bad one," he stilled the straw from the water thermos and held it to her lips.

"I was dreaming about mom…do you remember that morning?" Cael nodded. "I can't see her face anymore, when I close my eyes. I haven't been able to for a long time. I have to look at pictures."

"You were young…we were young," he pulled the chair up closer to the bed and sat down.

Chris sighed, closing her eyes as she struggled to conjure up the image, to fill in the blur. _Come back to me. Come back to me._ "I can remember everything about that fucking day, everything….everything but her face."

"You look like her," Cael reached out and dabbed at her tears with a tissue.

_Don't say that. _ She turned her head. "Do you think things would be different, if she hadn't died? Do you think we would be different?"

He thought for a minute. She was always doing this. It was her modus operandi, to question, to analyze, to dredge up the past, to fight battles. And if there were no real battles, no real bullets, no trenches, she'd create them; there were an infinite number of monsters in her memory to fight. But, memories were invincible; they couldn't be beaten. They always won, because they existed.

"You mean, like, would I not be an accountant?" Cael gave her a playful swat on the arm.

"I'm serious."

He huffed, shaking his head, "I don't know. I honestly don't. What does it matter? She did die. We are who we are, because of it or not."

"I think we would be. I think I would. I think I wouldn't have been so angry for so long. I think I wouldn't have spent my whole life trying to please Dad and make him notice me. I think you and I never would have grown apart. I think we wouldn't have spent most of our lives being afraid to love someone. I'm not even sure I would have joined the army and become a cop…" Chris took a deep a breath and chuckled through a new barrage of tears, "…maybe you'd still be an accountant."

Hi hands gathered up her hand in a firm clasp, "I miss her too."

It was a curious realization. It seemed wrong. But as her brother tried to commiserate, she knew they weren't in the same place. She didn't miss her mother. She'd barely known her; there were maybe a handful of memories, mostly overshadowed by that day: that day, when the evening white out covered the city in a glassy beauty. But, beauty wasn't harmless; it could be cold and brutal.

Chris let her head roll to the side away from her brother, "I miss…the idea of her."

* * *

><p><em>Mommy.<em> Her fingers gripped and release the edge of the bed as she waited, whispering again, _Mommy._ _**Hmm?**_ _I can't sleep._

Loving arms gathered her up in the darkness and carried her. Red hair. Her sleepy eyes focused on the strands of her mother's hair as she twirled her fingers through errant strands, until being softly laid back in her bed forced her to let go. The touch was comforting, the gentle caress of her mother's fingers dragging lightly up and down her arm as she curled up behind her.

_Sleep my baby_. She pulled the covers up around them and continued her calming strokes.

_Sing to me._

Warm lips pressed lightly to her temple and though she couldn't see it, she could feel the smile behind the kiss. Her velvety voice rippled through the pitch-black room; it encircled her, each word, every note a part of her embrace.

_Summertime,_

_And the livin' is easy_

_Fish are jumpin'_

_And the cotton is high_

_Oh, your daddy's rich_

_And your mamma's good lookin'_

_So hush little baby_

_Don't you cry._

* * *

><p>"Summertime" by George Gershwin from Porgy and Bess.<p> 


	2. Ghosts

**Author's Note: **Thanks to everyone who reviewed CH 1 or is reading along and interested in this story. We will see Maura in the next chapter.

**CH 2: Ghosts**

She was like a daughter to him. Strange. He had never really considered that was how he looked at her until she almost died. Captain Karl Petrovski stopped with his hand on the door handle. He would have been proud to have a daughter like her. And yet, he hadn't been able to come see her in the hospital until now. It was one of those things he couldn't stomach…ever since Vietnam: seeing friends and colleagues in hospital beds, all tubes and bandages and hanging on for dear life. It brought back memories, terrible memories from the ambush, his narrow escape and watching his platoon members that didn't die in the jungle scream in pain for days, weeks after in the hospital. He had to wait until she was out of the woods. He couldn't see her like that, just in case, so that memories of her didn't haunt him like the memories of Jack, Gordon and Billy did.

He walked in, expecting the worst, bracing for it; but, she looked…well, like Chris. Relief.

"Captain…" Chris smiled, muting the television.

"Damn Kelly, setting a dangerous precedent here, I don't think anyone's supposed to look this good after taking a slug in the chest," he grabbed the chair that was near the bed and pulled it closer, taking a seat.

Chris snorted, "Yeah, well, you should see what it looks like under the bandages."

He paused. This was different. Different than he imagined he would feel if he were sitting next to Cross, Anderson, MacLachlan or any of the other members of the unit. She was one of the guys, one of the team, but he'd also known her longest, because of her father. The familial feeling reared its head again, she wasn't just one of his officers, she was like a member of his family.

"How ya feel?"

"Kind of like I got shot," she gave him a sly smile as she joked.

"Smart ass. I bet the nurses regret taking the breathing tube out."

Chris managed to stifle the small chuckle, she was getting pretty good at that, laughing hurt like a bitch after all. "Nah, I'm trying to be on my best behavior. If I don't give the nurses too much grief they let Rizzoli, Cael and Cross sneak outside food in for me." She waited for a moment, contemplating whether to come out with it, "This isn't going to jeopardize my return to the unit is it?"

Petrovski shook his head, "Requisition is approved, jump through the department's post-incident hoops and as soon as you're able, we're on the first flight to Amsterdam." Now it was his turn to question how far to press, "Everyone says you saved her life."

"Maura?" He nodded. "Plechenko would have killed her. I couldn't let that happen."

"Maybe…" _maybe you shouldn't go there_, "…this vanquishes some demons?"

Chris closed her eyes.

_Fuck! Damnit!_ Profanity. As loud as the explosions and the gunfire, the mix of cursing and the bone-jarring sounds of a war zone were all she heard. If anyone said anything else, it was lost in the melee. The smell. Dust, sand and boiling sweat and the singeing smell of sulfur and smoke that burned from the nose all the way into her lungs. The earth was shaking. The dog was screaming. Her head was spinning. Everything was upside-fucking-down. Auto-pilot. She couldn't recall what she was thinking, if she was even thinking at all. _Fucking leg! Move!_ She yelled that; that she could remember. Gritty sand between her fingers and under her fingernails as she crawled. _Kelly! Kelly! I got you! Let's go!_ Arms collapsed around her and started dragging her backwards. _Mik_. Mik was screaming. _No!_ How she even managed to turn around and land a punch on the Lieutenant she didn't know. So close. A few more feet. More gunfire rang out and a young girl fell, barely a teenager. Brown eyes like drops of chocolate, she was so scared. Tears carved noticeable trails down her dirt-covered face. In a sea of sand and neutral tones she laid there in a bright red tunic, it looked almost new. A few wisps of hair fell errantly from underneath her navy blue hijab. Her hands were clutched to her chest but she reached out, blood staining her palm. Their eyes connected. _Saa'ideeni. Help me. Min fadlik, Saa'ideeni. Please, help me._

_Please, help me._

She opened her eyes, bringing her hand to her chest, "She'll always be there."

"You don't know that she died." Petrovski arched his eyebrows, trying to be frank, trying…to pull her back from the darkness that haunted her every time she closed her eyes.

"I didn't do anything to make sure she lived." Chris looked at him, her blue eyes glassy with tears, "It was war. I know that. You know that, maybe more so than anyone else. I know that war makes it different, and I could rationalize what I did and absolve myself of it. I don't want to. I don't want to forget her, the look on her face, her hand as she reached out for me, the sound of her voice as she pleaded for my help. Maura's not alive because of me. She's alive because of that girl, because of the way leaving that girl there made me feel. I don't ever want to feel like that again. I'd rather die than feel like that. And if keeping that image fresh in my mind makes it possible for me to do what I did for Maura, it's worth it."

"He'd be proud of you, you know. That day we talked in the cemetery…" Petrovski thought back to the day after Kelso passed, the crisp smell of fall on the breeze, the sound of leaves as they hardened in the beginning stages of death, the way the season painted the scenery varying shades of burnished gold. "I know you don't think so, but I think he would. I know it."

Her father. Sergeant Joseph Kelly. He had been an imposing man, not necessarily in stature, he was fairly average as far as height and weight; but he had a presence. Dark brown hair and slate blue eyes that were almost grey, he could look right through a person. His presence wasn't something you ever got used to. Joe Kelly could stop your breath with a stare and send your heart into the pit of your stomach with a single word. You didn't have to hear him coming, you could feel him, as if he displaced the air in the room as he entered.

It could be unsettling, that presence. But, sometimes there was a comfort to it. He taught her how to be strong because that's how he was. No nonsense. The best family man he was not, but a workhorse he was. Chris modeled that in her own life, it's how she got to where she was, she knew that and in the quiet moments when reflection on him sneaked into her mind, she thanked him for it. That strength had carried her through many trials, the present one included.

"I just wish…he would have told me. Even once." Chris looked at up the ceiling, letting the ivory expanse fill her sight. _Just once, Dad_.

"Wasn't his style." Petrovski chuckled as a distant conversation rolled to the forefront of his mind, "You know what he said when you got Mik?"

Chris snickered, "I believe his words to me were: _A Malinois? Invest in earplugs_."

"Good advice," Petrovski snorted, "He walked in, pulled out the photo you had sent…he had printed it out and everything, showed it all around and said: _A fucking Malinois. Can you believe that? She's got more balls than her old man. _ He reported back every find you wrote him about. MacLachlan was strutting around one day after Hammer alerted on some dope in a kid's locker on a school sweep. Your old man walked up behind him, slapped him on the back and said: _Chris' dog alerted on explosives planted in a market, saved a few hundred people's lives…but yeah, that dime bag's pretty impressive, I guess_."

They both laughed. MacLachlan didn't have a great feel for dogs. He was adequate, but his lack of rapport with his partner showed in their stats. Hammer was almost at retirement age and Petrovski hoped that MacLachlan would transfer back to SWAT. They all hoped.

"Bet that chapped Mac's ass."

Petrovski nodded. "You know it. He was proud of you Chris. He may not have known how to say it, and I know that doesn't necessarily make you feel any better, but he was. The last time I visited with him, before he passed, he made me promise when you got back from your next tour that I'd make a place on the unit for you. _Gotta have a Kelly on the unit_, he said, _she'll be better than me one day_. He emphasized that one day bit, and I had a good laugh, but he was right."

Chris pursed her lips and nodded, fighting the tears.

"It's ok to cry sometimes you know," Petrovski reached out and took her hand. "Everybody does it."

Chris closed her eyes and let the teardrops fall.

The funeral was very Irish, and very Catholic. She remembered the wake the most. People coming and going constantly. The food. So much food. The sadness lapped through the gathering in waves, at times the mourners would be stricken with grief and everyone would cry. And she would cry. Then someone would take it upon themselves to try and tell a happy or funny story and lighten the mood. Her father was stoic throughout, his expression never wavering. He didn't laugh at the stories and he didn't cry during the periods of melancholy. It was no different at the church or at the graveside.

The wind whipped at her face, a biting cold that burned and froze the tears to her reddened skin. _Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return_. She watched the dirt trickle through the priest's fingers and fall to the casket. Cael's fingers wrapped around her arm as he pulled her forward, he put the yellow roses he was holding on the casket first and then looked at her. She brought the frigid buds to her nose, letting the velvety cold petals drag across her lips as she kissed them and placed them with her brother's offering. More tears. His presence. She knew he was there as she turned. His face held the same expression it had throughout the entire ordeal, his blue eyes clear, devoid of the telltale sign of sorrow the rest of them were incapable of inhibiting. Strength. She let her body fall forward into his arms, closing her eyes as he scooped her up.

"I don't think he did. I don't ever remember seeing him cry, not even when my mother died." She looked down as Petrovski squeezed her hand.

"He cried. We were on shift together when he got the notification about what had happened in Iraq…" Petrovski stood, "Look at me, it goes back to what I said in the cemetery after Kelso died. You can't go back in time. You can't make him a different man than he was. But he loved you and your brother. And he was proud of you. How could he not be? You followed in his footsteps. Somehow, you have to find a way to believe that. Give yourself some peace. And give your memory of him some peace."

He turned and began to leave, but stopped as he neared the door. He could understand where she was coming from. Chris was right, some things you just need to hear. Turning, he waited until she looked him in the eye. "Meg couldn't have kids you know. We got pregnant once but she miscarried. She never really got over that and we decided not to adopt. I worked with your dad since you were a kid, Chris, I've always thought of you as the closest thing I ever had to a daughter. I know it's not the same, but for what it's worth, you make me proud, as your father's friend, as your friend and as your colleague. I'm proud of the person, the trainer and the cop you've become, for what little role I might have played in it, I'm proud of you."

* * *

><p>The days in the hospital were long and the inactivity made her restless. The hours since Petrovski had left dragged on towards nightfall. Chris wasn't sure she could stand it much longer, all this time to think. It made her weary. There was entirely too much processing. She laughed as she thought about it. <em>Wasn't his style<em>. Wasn't hers either. She was his daughter. All of the parts of him she wanted to be like and a good brunt of those she didn't. They were alike, for better or worse he was an indelible part of who she was.

Chris reached for the journal on the bedside table and pulled the old photograph from between the last two pages. She ran her finger along the worn edges and over her father's face, the slight smile on his lips and over to her mother who looked up at him adoringly.

_Why do people die?_ She asked as her father tucked the covers in around her.

_Because, God lets us live here for a little while and then he calls us back to live with him for eternity in heaven._ Chris could distinctly remember the look of absolute faith in his eyes as he spoke.

_Will you die?_

He didn't even flinch. _Everyone dies._

_But then we go to heaven, to be with God?_

He nodded.

_When I die, will you and mommy be there, waiting for me?_

He nodded again. _We will. We'll be a family again._

Chris slipped the picture back into the journal and closed it, not bothering to wipe the tears as they fell. "I forgive you," she whispered.


	3. Reclamation

**CH 3: Reclamation**

And there it was. The yearly reminder. Floating down from the sky, just one at first, then two then three turning into hundreds and thousands, millions or even more. Who could count? Each one: sharp, jagged and a bitterly cold reminder. Every year, without fail they came. Tiny snowflakes: alone each little ice crystal was the epitome of fragility. A single flake was no match for the heated touch from even a child's fingertip, rendered quickly to liquid and then whisked away. But, together those single flakes piled higher and higher, and with each day would pack harder and harder and rolling surfaces of once powdery white would turn to cold plates of glass.

Chris watched the white specks spin and swirl under the glow of the street lamps outside her hospital room. The first snow. She hated it. But, every year she made a habit of greeting it as it came. A reaffirmation of her grudge, a foe that could not be beaten; yet, she couldn't let it go. _You took her away._

"Here we are again," she muttered in the darkness of the room, the only light was that which filtered in from the lamps outside and the luminous reflection off the quickly accumulating precipitation. _We._ Her and God. She wasn't even sure she believed in God anymore. And if there was a God she imagined she'd spent far too many years being angry at Him for Him to care much about her. _All-loving God. Bullshit._ That was the other part of it, at what point have you damned God so much there can be no forgiveness for your sins? She was more comfortable erring towards the non-existence of the divine. It was easier that way. Then all of her damnations, all of her curses to the Almighty for the terrible things she had seen, for the things she had done, for what had been done to her were just empty words, eaten by the air and disappearing into nothingness like a snowflake on a fingertip.

But, if there was a God…she was sure heaven wasn't like what her father had described. No pearly gates or angels, no corporeal form, no mother and father waiting for her. She let her mind play with the thought, the childhood fantasy that heaven looked just like Boston but in the sky somewhere, hidden behind clouds. Everyone would be there; everyone would look just as they had on earth. _We'll be a family again. Chris…we'll be a family again._

_Chris._

"Chris?"

She wasn't sure when she had fallen asleep. One minute the only light was from a dim glow outside her window and now she had to squint as the sun poured in uninvited. Chris looked up at Maura who was standing next to her.

"Did you sleep in this wheelchair all night?"

Judging by the cramp in her neck and the general pain and discomfort that was slowly asserting itself over her senses, apparently she had. She groaned slightly as she took a deep breath; it felt only slightly less painful than what she imagined a baseball bat to the chest might feel like.

"It was the first snow."

Maura wheeled her to the bed and helped her climb back in it. "You should have stayed in bed and gotten a good night's sleep, you have your first physical therapy session today."

Chris smirked, "Thank you, Doctor Isles. I always watch the first snow. Let it know that I'm still here and that I haven't forgotten…" Her voice trailed off as she said it. She knew it sounded ridiculous. She never really realized how ridiculous until she heard the words coming out of her own mouth. It was what it was. Crazy or not, the snow was one of her windmills.

Maura seemed to try to make sense of the statement, "I'm sure I don't have to tell you that snow is not in fact sentient. Or should I suggest your doctor call for a psych consult instead of physical therapy today." She smiled as she said it, failing to hold in the contagious giggle that made Chris laugh as well.

"I miss your laugh," Chris looked away as she said it, out the window where the previously grey winter days had turned white. "That's not what I meant…talking to the snow like it's real, I'm not insane…"

"I know," Maura reached for her hand.

"Did you ever love something so much, look forward to it and then something happens and ruins it forever?"

Maura wanted to relate to her. She wanted to understand what Chris meant, how she felt; she wanted to help her. "Like, to the point you can't enjoy it anymore?"

Chris nodded, her eyes opening and focusing in stern sincerity on Maura, "To the point that that thing you loved becomes something you hate. It becomes an enemy and even though you know you can't beat it; it's not something that can be defeated you still feel this drive to try?"

"I…no, I can't say as I have."

"She died in the first snowfall that year. My brother and I made snow angels in the yard that morning and a few hours later she was in a three-car accident and she died. We were going to build a snowman when she got home…well, a snow dog. I didn't want to build a snowman because everyone always builds a snowman. But, she died. And as the next few years passed the snow reminded me more and more of that day and I got angrier and angrier. I've hated the snow ever since." Chris watched as Maura nodded.

"So, you watch the first snowfall."

"Every year," Chris confirmed.

"Because you feel like that's the moment everything changed?" Maura reached for Chris' cheek and brushed a tear away.

"Am I crazy?" Despite her earlier protest, now she wasn't so sure.

Maura shook her head, "No. You're not crazy. But, how long are you going to push the rock?"

"Sisyphus." The corner of her mouth turned up in a grin and her eyebrow arched as she watched Maura. Talking Google as Jane called her. It was endearing, charming even, one of the attributes that made Maura so easy to fall in love with, because, she was genuine. It was just a part of who she was; it was how she thought, it was how she related to the world and the people in it. It was completely devoid of pretension, totally lacking in intent to flaunt superior knowledge.

The wheels turned, grinding out the details of the ancient myth in her head. Maura watched, knowing Chris, knowing some further exposition was coming.

"I'm not sure that's the most appropriate analogy."

"Hmm," Maura pondered, lips pursing together, eyes wandering up and to the right as she thought.

"Sisyphus was condemned to roll the stone up the hill for all eternity by Zeus, a punishment for his hubris and not an action he could choose to forego if he so desired."

"Ah," Maura smiled, "maybe we're getting somewhere now."

"I think…" Chris bit down on her lip as the realization dawned on her, something no doubt everyone around her had seen; Maura had hinted at it before, Petrovski too, even her brother over the past weeks. "I think perhaps the idiom tilting at windmills might be better."

"To attack imaginary enemies or to engage in futile or unwinnable battles. So, my dear Quixote you see that those giants are in fact windmills," Maura winked and stood as the nurses entered.

"And I've chosen to fight them all these years. God, the snow, the memories of my father…"

Maura let Chris steady herself on her arm as she transitioned to the wheelchair, "So, choose another path now."

"It's what I've always done," Chris watched as Maura knelt in front of her.

"People can change," Maura's voice was almost a whisper, "you're already doing it. I believe that you can be who you want to be, free of the chains of the past, unencumbered by those illusory giants."

"Will you help me?"

Maura stood and grabbed the handles of the wheelchair at the nurses' allowance, "Sgt. Christine Kelly, asking for help. Nothing but windmills."

* * *

><p>The frigid air helped numb the burning pain in her chest from her first therapy session. Each breath circulated the chill deeper down, slowly but surely taking away the edge, the ache. Chris looked around the otherwise empty hospital courtyard, the blanket of fresh snow and Maura Isles standing ten feet in front of her with an impish grin as she gestured towards the eight inches of sugary powder.<p>

Chris looked down at her bare hands, pink and stiff from the cold and she smiled.

_Gloves, baby, you always forget your gloves._

Her mother never understood that bare hands made better snowballs. The freezing cold was more than worth any advantage over her brother in a snowball fight. Besides, there was always a mug of hot chocolate to warm them back up.

"So," Maura swiped up a handful of snow, "how do I do this?"

"I can't believe you've never had a snowball fight before," Chris shook her head in disbelief. "First, take your gloves off, you've got to be able to feel the snow, know when it's packed just right so that when you throw it, it doesn't immediately disintegrate."

"Sounds very technical," Maura joked as she turned her back and began to collect some snow in her now bare hands.

"Exceptionally technical, think you can handle it?" Chris lobbed back as she collected some of the snow off the stone bench her wheelchair was parked next to.

Maura glanced smugly over her shoulder as she fashioned her first snowball, standing, she was barely turned all the way back around before one of Chris' expertly crafted projectiles connected squarely with her neck, sending a spray of snow into her face and down the neck of her sweater. She laughed; her already flushed cheeks reddening further. Chris watched her as Maura doubled over giggling, shimmying around as she tried to shake loose the snow inside the neck of her sweater and on top of it. She felt like a kid again as she reclaimed the simple joy of a winter snowstorm. The snow had never stopped being enjoyable; she had just stopped enjoying it: a self-imposed punishment out of guilt. No more.

Chris beckoned for Maura to follow her, "Part two of any outdoor winter activity. Hot chocolate. We'll talk strategy and I'll tell you how to beat Jane in a snowball fight."


	4. Dust to Dust

**CH 4: Dust to Dust**

It was a Sunday. The last ditch effort of Spring to hang on to some semblance of cool weather. But the morning chill was always beaten back by the afternoon sun and the first tinges of humidity off the water. One didn't need a calendar to know that summer was attempting to slowly ingratiate itself. She was ready; ready for the heat and humidity and lazy days spent racing bikes against the other neighborhood children and running through sprinklers. There would be none of that on this Sunday.

_Christine_. Her father shook her awake. _Christine, get dressed, we have somewhere to be_.

You didn't ask Joe Kelly questions. He would tell you what you needed to know when he was ready to tell you. It was a pleasant drive, just her and her father; Cael stayed at home alone. Those were the days when you could do things like that, leave a 10 year old boy home alone for a few hours.

_Lock the door behind me. Keep it locked. Don't open it for anyone and don't answer the phone. Don't you dare leave the house._ Those were the instructions and they were always the same from the first time Cael was left home alone until the time they were both teenagers and allowed to go out on their own.

The city didn't stretch as far then. Chris watched in the side mirror of the car as the Boston skyline disappeared behind them and gave way to a drive dotted with smaller towns and woods. Eventually she watched mile after mile of trees bleed together outside of the window, occasionally interrupted by fields. They were somewhere a little past Sherborn after about an hour. She couldn't remember where exactly, when her father pulled off on a gravel-covered road lined with old wooden and rock fences and dozens of black sheep faces that looked up from their ruminations to watch the car pass by.

_You've been teaching Zeke tricks._ She'd been caught. Chris looked up at her father; he arched an eyebrow but was otherwise stone-faced. _I was talking to myself and I asked where the newspaper was and he ran to the living room and retrieved it off the buffet._ Laughing probably wasn't the appropriate response; she was in all reality most likely in trouble, but she couldn't help it. It hadn't taken long to teach him really, a couple of days while her father was sleeping. So, out with it, what else?

Lying did occur to her. But, the damage was already done. Her eyes dropped to her lap, _spin, roll over and shake, _she replied meekly_._

_He's not a pet, Christine. He's a working dog_. She nodded.

The old man standing at the end of the drive looked like someone out of the photos her mother had shown her from Ireland, with his tweed cap and jacket and knee high galoshes. He waved and motioned them to pull aside. She looked up at her father; she still didn't know what they were doing here on this farm so early on a Sunday morning.

Her father pulled the car over and turned the engine off. _I don't want you teaching my dog any tricks_. She nodded.

She couldn't remember his name after all these years, the old farmer. In fact, she didn't remember much from the moment she was being chastised in the car until they walked into the barn. Chris followed closely behind her father and the old man, but occupied her mind by watching the droves of spring lambs frolicking at the nearest fence. What she did remember was her father beckoning her forward and pushing her towards a stall door the old man was opening. And she definitely remembered the six black and white balls of fur that come faux growling and yipping out as they surrounded her feet.

Her father kneeled down next to her and placed his hand lightly on her back. _You can teach one of these, whatever you want._

The puppies had scattered through the barn save for one male who had latched his little needle teeth to the laces of her shoe and was busy untying them. He jerked and twisted, falling and rolling over before assaulting the shoestrings again. Chris giggled, scooping the puppy up. _He's not a German Shepherd though_.

Joe Kelly chuckled, _no, German Shepherds are grown up dogs. You train this Border Collie and one day I'll get you a German Shepherd. But you have to show me you can train this one first._

She wanted to name him Sneakers. But the old man explained that collies always have a one syllable name because commands need to be given quickly to working herders and multi-syllable names could confuse the dogs. Sneak would do.

* * *

><p>"Hmm?" <em>Shit, totally not paying attention<em>. Chris gave Dr. Johnson an apologetic smile.

Dr. Diane Johnson was in her mid-fifties, pleasant and most of all…patient. She had put up with more than her fair share of Chris' shit and roadblocks and she knew that. Chris knew she had to suffer through the mandatory psych evaluations and "feelings sessions" as she called them; it didn't mean she had to make those sessions easy on her doctor.

Dr. Johnson removed her glasses and set them aside, "Well, I was asking how you felt about being discharged tomorrow. But, I think I'd like to know what you were thinking about so deeply just now."

"When I was eight years old, my father found out I had been teaching his police K-9 tricks behind his back. He put me in the car one morning and drove me out to a farm, at first I thought he was angry but when we got there he bought me a Border Collie puppy." Chris shifted on the sofa and watched the slight smile creep across the doctor's face, "That's all I was thinking about."

"So, he wasn't mad at you?"

Chris laughed, tilting her head back, "No, he was mad. We were explicitly not to mess with Zeke, or Oskar after him, or Kelso after that."

"But, he bought you a puppy?"

"Yeah…I mean he scolded me in the car…and then he bought me a puppy, Sneak. And six years later when I was fourteen he bought me June, another Border Collie. She was a birthday present. I trained them both and showed them in AKC obedience trials. Dad helped. If he was off work, he came to every trial. Those were the only extracurricular activities of mine he ever came to." Chris looked down to where she was intertwining her hands.

"What do you think that says about your relationship with your father?" Dr. Johnson leaned forward and set her notes aside.

"I think…" she paused, reaching up to wipe at the moisture on her cheeks, "I think…maybe…he could see what I was supposed to do, even at that age. And I think he approved and he wanted me to follow in his footsteps, even if he couldn't say it in those exact words."

Dr. Johnson cocked her head, "Is that all?"

He was there, when she and Sneak finished their Utility title, standing outside the ring with his arms crossed as the judge presented them the green and blue high in trial rosette. He was smiling.

"When it came to the dogs, I think…I think perhaps he was proud of me after all."

* * *

><p>"Happy to be going home?" Petrovski glanced at her as he drove.<p>

"God, yes." Chris watched through the window as a snow-covered Boston passed in a blur of white, grey and brown by the passenger's side window.

"Get your head shrunk?" He laughed, knowing full well Chris' feelings on the mandated psych appointments.

She laughed under breath, "Yeah, but I gave Dr. Johnson a bit of the old Kelly flair to keep her on her toes."

"No doubt," he smirked. "Was it a total waste?"

Moment of truth, that which she didn't really want to admit: as self-reliant and hard-nosed as she was, for everything she had figured out on her own, there were some things Dr. Johnson had helped her see.

"No, it wasn't actually." Chris laughed as she shook her head, "Pains me to admit it, but in some ways it did help. I blamed him for a lot of things, a lot of sadness and feelings of inadequacy he didn't deserve to be blamed for…"

"Your father?"

She nodded, "Yeah. Do you know what I remembered during my last session with Dr. Johnson? That day he took me to get Sneak…and that he was there when we went high in trial for the third leg of his Utility title. He was proud of me."

Chris could swear she heard Petrovski sniffle. "Told you," he said. "You ever wonder what happened to that ribbon, from that trial with Sneak?"

She pursed her lips and thought, "Haven't thought about it in years."

"He kept it. In a box in his closet. Told me where it was on one of our visits before he died. 198.5, he said. She scored a 198.5 out of 200, at thirteen years old with a farm-bought collie. It was the most animated he got those last days, when he talked about you. I made sure that ribbon went in the ground with him."

_Fucking crying_. "Damn you," Chris sniffled, blinking through tears that muddied her vision. Petrovski was getting too good at this, making her think…and making her cry. "I should have been there…when he died."

There were no good days in Iraq. There were terrible days, bad days and all the other days where you just got through. Waking up from a night sans the booming explosions of shelling was rare. Yet, that particular morning was one of those. The feeling was eerie, as if acknowledging the restful sleep they had all had was bad luck. The day was just as hot as all the previous yet it seemed milder somehow, likely a result of the full night's sleep and the straws of optimism they all grasped at despite the stark realism they were usually met with. The daily patrol had been uneventful, their route through the market the same as any other day. But, today there was a little girl sitting near her mother's wares: fresh and dried herbs and spices. The child wore a black dress and white headscarf, both of which were tinged tan from the blowing sand. She tended several small pots of native Iraqi plants: Anastatica – the rose of Jericho. Chris hadn't known what they were at the time, but she'd looked them up later. Anastatica was also known as the resurrection plant as it dies after the rainy season and curls into a tight ball, protecting the seeds until the next rain. She also tended several pots of Puschkinia, short plants with nonetheless dainty and quite pretty white flowers streaked with blue. The girl uprooted one of the Puschkinia and handed it to her. Chris took it and kept on her patrol, tucking the tiny blossom into her pocket.

"Mik hit on explosives in a market the day he died, not 200 feet from where a little girl handed me a flower." Chris sighed, shaking her head as she massaged her temple.

"You were right where he would have wanted you to be, doing what made him proud," Petrovski's hand was light on her shoulder.

They pulled into an empty space near Chris' apartment and Petrovski paused, waiting for Chris to acknowledge him. "How's your ticker?"

Chris laughed, "My…ticker…is fine, old man," she replied with a wink.

"Good," he jumped out and ran to the other side to open her door, "I'd hate after all those weeks of rehab in the hospital to have you keel over at a little welcome home surprise party."

She rolled her eyes with a laugh, "I think you must be unfamiliar with the concept of a surprise party."

Petrovski gave her a light swat on the back, "I'm as familiar with the concept of surprise parties as I am with how much you hate surprises. Fake it."


	5. Phantom Perceptions

**Author's Note:** Sorry for taking so long to update this one, it takes being in a certain mood and I had to reconnect with that! There will be one more chapter to this story and then I suppose I'll let Chris Kelly go lol

**CH 5: Phantom Perceptions**

She could swear she read something once about a failsafe in the human brain: the ability to remember that something hurts, that a particular something did hurt but not to recall, to actually be able to conjure the sensation of pain. It had something to do with why women would choose to go through childbirth more than once. Or something. Chris couldn't remember the details of the article. It was bullshit anyway.

She threw up. That's how bad it hurt. Burning, fiery, body-shaking pain that radiated out from the source and consumed everything. Vomiting was so undignified. At least she didn't have to remember her fellow soldiers and the medics cutting her clothes off. Thank God for drugs and unconsciousness. She sputtered into a pan a nurse was holding, a string of incoherent utterances gurgling up from her chest. Acidic bile was in her nose, reminding her that yes, it was possible for absolutely everything to hurt all at once.

The leg was still there. It had to be. It hurt too much not to be. Yet, the prospect of looking down was terrifying. What if it wasn't there? Live with the illusion, she thought, just in case, even if only for a few more minutes, a few hours or days.

The nurse wiped her mouth and gave her a sip of water. It wasn't her nature – blissful ignorance. Slowly she let her hand start at her hip and move calculatingly southward. She would need arms like a chimpanzee to reach where she remembered being hit, so when her fingertips strained as far as they could and still met flesh she closed her eyes and dug them into her thigh. Deep breath. _Just look_. The leg was still there. That was something at least.

_My dog?_

No one knew anything for days. And the not knowing made the pain all that more unbearable. There was a connection there. A connection few others could understand. A lot of the other soldiers didn't even know what he meant to her. Mik. If the dog wanted prime space in her rack at night, he got it. If a patrol was running long he got the extra water from the canteen. After all, he was doing the hard work. He had to be alive. She hurt too much for him not to be. They were hurting together, wherever he was. Connection.

They were going to put him down – the army. Once they had whisked her away to surgery a clusterfuck of an argument had ensued one of her unit members had told her later. What do you do with a war dog in the middle of Iraq with his leg shattered all to hell? One of the medics had vet tech experience, got the bleeding under control and ran some fluids. Someone went to bat for her; went to bat for Mik. No one ever would tell her who. The closest army veterinarian was in Bahrain. They airlifted him there.

That first image of reunion was always the same: hand ruffling through fur, the sensation of the wiry black tips of each individual red hair dragging slowly across her palm. Deep into his coat, pockets of Iraqi sand were deposited, loosened as her nails dragged lightly across his skin and freed as she retracted her fingers. Iraq had tattooed itself into the deepest reaches of her being. And it would have been the same, physical scars or not. It was permanent, inked into her brain and her soul. It would never fade. The sand lingered for months, wash after wash, vacuum pass after pass. Even when the actual grit was gone the feel of it remained, the smell of blood, sweat and sulfur lingered, the images projected onto closed eyelids. It was more than history; it would never live just in the past. Iraq was physical, psychological, and emotional. It was sensory. And it was indelibly a part of her.

Phantom perceptions. She hurt even when there was no physical reason to. Conjured by the simplest act: a hand ruffling through fur, fingers gliding along an oft traced and jagged scar. Pain. She ached.

"Chris?"

The voice seemed familiar yet distant. Always in these moments the sound of the present bled into the background, overwhelmed by shouting, firing, explosions and the cacophonic drone of machinery – sirens, jet engines and helicopter blades swirling together in one mass of man-made chaos that overwhelmed her.

"Chris?" A gentle hand accompanied the voice, falling on her shoulder and giving it a shake.

"Sorry," Chris gasped as she opened her eyes, blinking rapidly. Her hand stroked one last time through fur; Mik was asleep, head in her lap. She clenched her hand open and shut until the dry, abrasive recollection of sand dissipated.

"It's ok," Maura smiled.

"Sometimes I…" Chris winced, gripping her knee, "…get lost…"

"Flashbacks?" Maura propped her elbow on the back of the sofa and reached for Chris' hand that was obsessively massaging her knee.

Chris nodded, "Iraq. I had to accept a long time ago that I have two existences and that waking up in the past one feels just as real as being here right now with you. I feel everything from that day and the days and weeks after."

"Some say the memory of pain can be more damaging than the initial experience," Maura squeezed Chris' hand.

Jane sat on the chair opposite them and reached for her side, "That's true I think. It's like…if you go back to that moment there's only the pain of the injury. I can remember what it felt like as the bullet went through, like some kind of bizarre slow motion sensation. But that's all there was. Just that initial pain. I couldn't hear or see anything at the time. Just felt that pain. Then afterwards, there's not only that but everything else you start to add to it."

"We're gluttons for punishment aren't we?" Chris chuckled.

Jane nodded in agreement with a smile, "I think that's pretty much established."

"I think when the physical healing is done, it's everything else that makes it still hurt. Guilt. Regret. That feeling of failure…"

"Recognition of selfishness," Jane interrupted her. "That's what it is for me. Late at night when these scars still feel fresh. I think about what I did and how selfish it was." She looked at Maura, apologetic eyes that didn't need words to convey how truly sorry she was. It had already been said, so many times and in every imaginable moment. Maura was compelled to touch the scars when they made love, run her fingers over the marred flesh, kiss the textured tissue and grip her side as she came. Those moments were the starkest reminder of everything that could have been lost. Jane would wait for Maura to fall asleep so that she could whisper _I'm sorry_ in her ear one more time. And her side would ache with the sensation of what could have happened and what may never have been.

Chris smiled curiously, "It's not all bad though. You can't make those feelings go away but sometimes you can reappropriate them." She looked at Maura's hand resting on top of her own and clasped it. "The decision I made that day to leave that girl and save Mik, part of that guilt is never going to go away. I have to live with that choice. It was the wrong choice, but I can't change that. But that guilt saved your life. I wouldn't have done what I did in that warehouse without the memory of leaving that girl there to die. She wore a red tunic and a navy blue headscarf. She reached out for me with blood on her hand and asked for my help and I left her there. Never again. That's how I was able to take that shot."

Maura nodded, reaching to wipe away a tear she looked over at Jane who was doing the same.

Chris stood, pulling Maura to her feet and transferring Maura's hand to Jane's, "And you use your memory," she looked Jane squarely in the eye, "to love her like you almost didn't get the chance to." Chris chuckled, "Or else."

Jane laughed with her but nodded her head in agreement as she pulled Maura into her arms, lifting her chin she placed a gentle kiss to expectant lips, "I think those are orders I can follow."

* * *

><p>Cael steadied her as they walked. The pathways in the cemetery had been shoveled and salted but patches of ice remained. She didn't hate the snow anymore. Chris paused to catch her breath; it was hard to breath in the frigid temperature especially with the fresh soreness from a particularly taxing day at physical therapy. The cemetery looked bleak, blanketed in white, icicles hanging from barren trees, grey skies obscuring a sleepy sun. In its own way, it was beautiful.<p>

There would be no more blaming the winter for what it took away. That she had decided on. It hadn't been an easy journey to let that anger go. Anger and love: the two emotions that seemed the hardest to vanquish. Maybe it wasn't such a bad thing to hold onto love, even if it meant loving someone that was gone or holding onto a love that would never be reciprocated. At least those feelings made her want to be a better person. Anger on the other hand. She was finally convinced of its self-destructive properties and the years she'd let herself be enslaved to it. No more.

Chris looked at her brother and laughed as they approached the graves of their parents, "I have the strangest urge to make a snow angel."

Cael chuckled, "You're joking, right?"

She shook her head no, as she laid down in front of her mother's headstone, stretching out spread eagle as she swiped her arms back and forth. Cael shook his head, looking around to see if anyone else was there. He laughed again, watching his sister until he gave in, flopping into the snow in front of his father's marker and reliving a poignant memory from his youth.

"He'd tell us to stop this foolishness," Cael turned his head, puffs of steam forming in the air with his staccato laugh.

Chris paused and looked up into the expanse of grey, a glimmer of sunlight carving its way through a thinning cloud. "You know," she turned her head to meet his blue eyes with her own, "I really don't think he would."


	6. The Butterfly Effect

**Author's Note:** This concludes the saga of Sgt. Chris Kelly. Many thanks to all of you that have followed this from Jealousy through this story!

**CH 6: The Butterfly Effect**

She hadn't gotten to pick Mik. Per se. You did what you were told in the army; you took what you were given. That wasn't to say the K-9s were handed out by random drawing. The Special Forces trainers were skilled and they had been at it a long time. They had seen every type of officer and every type of dog come through. They had the matching down to a science.

The anticipation was palpable: all of the handlers standing there waiting to be assigned their new partners. The first four dogs were Labradors. _Please, God…not a Lab_. Chris knew she'd never hear the end of it if she got assigned a Lab. Her father would mock her endlessly. It wasn't a dog unless it was a Shepherd. And it wasn't a good dog unless it was a German Shepherd. According to him anyway. She didn't want a German Shepherd, not really. Her father knew everything about them, spent his spare time researching lines and pedigrees. He would know more about the dog, at least in a genetic sense than she did. That was the last thing Chris wanted: her father having the upper hand on her first career working dog.

Malinois. All the rest were Malinois. Down the line until only one shipping crate remained and she was the only one standing there without a dog, still terrified and sweating it that a goofy looking yellow Lab was going to come wiggling out.

"Remember that?" Chris whispered into his ear. Mik regarded her with his good eye…his only eye. He sighed and threw his paw around her arm. "I'll be back. I've never left you."

The Master Trainer opened the last crate lassoing the furry bullet as it bolted out. The momentum and the taut kennel lead jerked the dog off his feet spinning him in the air before depositing him back on the ground. He launched into the Master Trainer with his shoulder and then spun around again, facing the officers and dogs. Tail in the air, chest puffed out and hair standing on end, the dog sounded off at the row of people and fellow canines in front of him.

_Yeah, yeah, you're a badass_. The trainer said with a laugh and the shake of his head. _Kelly! Meet your new partner, Mik, or as Doug down at the breeding facility called him: Get the little fucker off my property before he drives me insane._

They understood each other, they always had. From that moment when she took the leash for the first time and told him to knock it off and he did. Endless days and nights in the sand with the sound of explosions knocking on the door, he slept because she told him it was ok and she slept because there was someone that depended on her being alert for the next patrol. To that day. That day with the smell of smoke, sulfur and blood burned into her memory. The screaming penetrating her ear drums deeper than the explosions or the gunfire.

_Save my dog…save my dog._ She would never forget his eyes as they finally wrenched him away. He understood. He went quietly because she always came back.

"I'll be back before you know it, with something new to keep you on your toes," Chris stood up and chuckled as Mik put on his best guilt trip face. "He'll mope for a few days and then he'll lighten up. You've got my contact info but if there's anything pressing call Cross…"

Cael nodded, "Got it Chrissie. You know I know a few things about taking care of a dog. I grew up with our father too. And had Kelso while you were still over there after dad…"

_Dad_. "I know," Chris took one last look at Mik and then hugged her brother. "We leave tomorrow. I'll email you when we land."

* * *

><p>Fear. It never went away. Once it worked its way into you it set roots that couldn't be disentangled from the very fiber of your being. It could be managed though. Maybe there were some benefits to fear in the end, if you could make it work for you rather than against you. Fear of dying. Strangely, that had been one of the easier fears to best. She had a defied a war zone to save her dog; she'd taken a shot she knew likely meant her own life to save Maura's. The fear of failure was a far greater windmill than death.<p>

"Christine Kelly?" The receptionist held the door open as she stood and walked back to Dr. Johnson's office.

The doctor's office didn't strike her as typical and Chris had been in enough doctors' offices to know. Cindy Johnson didn't stack the room floor to ceiling with books. That tendency always struck Chris as odd. If one was a doctor it was assumed that much reading had been done. Useless pretention. Chris didn't care about the books on the shelf; she cared about if the person with the medical degree sitting on the chair across from her could help her work her shit out. Dr. Johnson had so far done just that.

"Ah, that's new, what do you think?" The doctor entered the room and found Chris admiring the new painting she'd just had hung a few weeks prior.

"Crew teams on the Charles at sunset," Chris turned, "It's one of my favorite sights."

Dr. Johnson smiled as she walked up next to her, she had a penchant for contemporary realism and she enjoyed supporting the local artists, "Sunset. Everyone sees the crew teams and think it's a sunrise picture."

Chris shook her head and pointed at the canvas, "No. This is east; this is west. If the direction of the light wasn't the first give away the colors are. Sunset is more vibrant…more orange. This is beautiful. It's perfect. It's…the Charles. It's what I imagined so many nights in Iraq as the sun went down and shadows cast out over a sea of sand. I imagined the sand was water. That the Charles was just on the other side of camp. I'd close my eyes and tell myself that Boston wasn't half a world away."

"Is that what got you through?" The doctor took a seat and motioned for Chris to take one as well on the opposite high-backed chair.

It had been. When there was nothing in her mind to look forward to, there was at least the memory of Boston. The promise of that familiar skyline and river, waiting, unchanged. Constant. "Yes. The river. Boston. America. I didn't want to die over there. I saw people die, my fellow soldiers. Watched them fight death so they didn't have to go in a hostile land. There was a soldier, Bethany; she was from West Virginia. We took a hard hit on our camp one night. I held her hand while she died. The last thing she said was: I wanted to see the sun rise from my favorite deer stand in the mountains one more time. And I thought of all the times I'd walked along the Charles and never really paid attention to it. In that moment, I knew I had to see it again."

Dr. Johnson wasn't even taking notes. In fact, Chris had already completed her required sessions and had been mentally cleared. She knew what it meant for Chris to have made the appointment voluntarily. It meant she needed to talk. Cindy Johnson prided herself on being able to read her patients. Chris didn't need a psychiatrist right now, not in the clinical sense. She needed an ear that happened to also be a doctor, an ear to just listen and respond when appropriate.

"I grew up here too," she smiled, lifting her glasses up and setting them on top of her close-cropped grey hair. "Always thought I wanted to get out. See the world. Travel. And when I was done with that I'd settle down somewhere, but not here. Not Boston. No, I thought the country was too big to be born in one place, live there and die there."

"Didn't work out?" Chris cocked her head. Dr. Johnson seemed like the kind of woman whose intelligence and skill in her craft would take her anywhere.

"I went into the Peace Corps after college," she pointed to a series of pictures along the far well next to the window. "South America mostly. One assignment in Thailand. I fell in love with Boston overseas. All the little things I'd always taken for granted, suddenly I missed them. It took that experience to realize that I can vacation anywhere I want. I can see the world. But there's only one place that's home. So, I came back."

Chris knew exactly what she meant. Perhaps that connection, that understanding of place and belonging was why she felt comfortable talking to the doctor. "We leave tomorrow."

"Ah," Dr. Johnson nodded and arched her eyebrows, "So that's what brings you here today."

Chris nodded, "It's exciting…and terrifying. And I can't seem to get over the terrifying part."

"Is it terrifying because it means you're really going back to work?" She had to ask the question, even though Dr. Johnson knew that wasn't really the reason.

"I'm not afraid of dying. I know that sounds strange. I'm not a good Catholic," Chris chuckled at the thought, "Frankly, I'm a downright terrible Catholic. I can't remember the last time I went to church. But, when my mother died, my father, who was the most hard-nosed, no nonsense, realistic person I've ever known in my life looked me in the eye and spoke of God and heaven and being together again as a family. He believed in that. And I believe that because for him to have that faith means something. I don't need church to give me that faith. So, I've never been afraid of dying…"

"That's probably a great deal of what makes you a good officer," Dr. Johnson interrupted, "your selflessness." She paused and they stared at each other for a long moment. "What terrifies you Christine?"

"Being alone. Watching the people, the things I love, die or leave. What terrifies me the most is that some part of that might be my fault." And there it was.

* * *

><p>Chris stood in the Petrovskis' kitchen and watched with a coy smile as Meg whipped up another batch of her famous margaritas. It always struck Chris that Meg was the perfect match for the Captain. Just as blunt and direct as he could be but with a dash of womanly wise and understated cunning. She was unassuming in stature and classically simple in appearance. Her current appearance belied the fact that, as evidenced by older pictures in the house, she had been quite stunning in her youth.<p>

Meg transferred the new batch of margaritas from the blender to the pitcher, "He wants you to pick Jager," she looked over her shoulder with a wink and beckoned for Chris to come sample the new batch. "Strong enough?"

"God yes," Chris winced. "The Cap would want a dog named after some nasty booze. Jager's a nice dog though. Any unit would be lucky to have him."

The older woman nodded knowingly, "I watched all the videos. You won't choose Jager." She picked up the pitcher and smiled as Maura entered the kitchen. Meg paused in the doorway and looked back, "You'll choose Luc."

"How do you know?" Chris handed Maura the margarita and put her hand on her hip as she eyed the Captain's wife with skepticism.

"Something about the look in his eye. I can tell he's a real son of a bitch. That's how I know you'll choose him." Meg winked and disappeared into the rowdy living room.

Maura took a sip of the drink and crinkled her nose as she coughed. She placed her nose over the glass and took a brief whiff and let the toe-curling tequila vapors confirm what her taste buds had just experienced.

Chris smiled and took the glass, setting it on the counter, "Meg likes a touch of margarita mix with her tequila."

"I dare say, you did warn me," Maura leaned against the counter next to Chris, "If Jane has more than two you may have to help me get her to the car."

"I can do that." Chris drummed her fingers on the counter. One day it would get easier. She hoped. Being around Maura. The fear of being alone would always be there, but she knew what it felt like now to not be alone. She wanted to feel that again and she had to have faith that she would. "May I?" Chris reached for the collar of Maura's shirt and paused.

Maura nodded, tilting her head as Chris pulled her sweater back.

She sighed with relief, "You can barely see the scar." She ran her thumb over the only now slightly discolored yet smooth skin before replacing Maura's sweater.

"And yours?" Maura turned to face her.

"It's uh…pretty gnarly. I don't think my doctors will be winning any cosmetic surgery awards. Hopefully I can find a woman who doesn't mind the battle scars." Chris gave a half laugh, but the look on Maura's face quieted her.

"It doesn't change anything; it doesn't change what's most important," Maura put her hand on Chris' chest and looked her in the eye, "You have a good heart. I realized something on the way over here tonight. I never actually said thank you."

Chris shook her head, "You don't need to."

Maura pulled her into a hug, sighing at the familiar comfort of the embrace. "Thank you. For so many things. I know it's not what you wanted, but I couldn't be more thankful to have you as my friend."

Chris pulled back with a smile that spoke of a realization a long time coming. She lifted her hand and took Maura lightly by the chin, "When you chose Jane. I thought it meant I was alone…again. Now I know, I've actually never been less alone than I am right now."

* * *

><p>The snow was a great place to think. The cold helped erase all the other noise. She let it work its rediscovered magic. Sliding down the raspy bark of the tree Chris kept going until she settled into the snow on the ground at its base. She stared out across the empty training field as she dug her fingers into the white powder. Choices. Action and reaction. Repercussions. It reminded her of the Butterfly Effect. Maura had gone off on a tangent about it one night. She didn't even remember at first what prompted the conversation.<p>

_Chaos theory is fascinating_. Chris stared into hazel eyes alight with enthusiasm. _The sensitive dependence on initial conditions, a small change in one place can result in large differences to a later state. A butterfly flaps its wings in one part of the world and weeks later a hurricane forms in another..._

Chris laughed out loud, opening her eyes and bringing herself back to the present. _Jurassic Park. We were watching Jurassic Park._

Initial condition. Choice. She was paired with Mik. He was the best bomb dog in the unit. They got sent to the shittiest shithole part of Iraq. Everyone else and their dog came home in one piece. Iraq kept pieces of her. Grecco. No one on that scene on a routine call could order her to send him. Cavanaugh was never on scene. He was that day. He outranked her. Grecco's training report had read: _willful disregard of pain and fear stimuli_. The first shot wasn't fatal. He could have stopped and he would have lived. He didn't stop.

If she hadn't been in Iraq with Mik, how many bombs would have gone off? If Grecco wasn't the dog he was, what human officer might have taken those two shots? Initial condition. Later effect.

Chris stood, dusted the snow from her pants and headed to the kennel building where Petrovski and his scout Johan were sheltering from the cold. The indoor training facility didn't do much to muffle the incessant barking of the five dogs they had tested. Tethered just out of reach of one another they strained and snarled at the agitator still wearing the bite suit standing with Petrovski and Johan. Chris walked down the line and took a knee in front of each, all Dutch Shepherds, varying shades of red to dark black brindle. First one, then the second looked past her, fixated on the agitator.

She took a knee in front of the third. His eyes darted towards her in recognition of her presence. Chris whistled, a light and airy tune she'd made up at some unknown point in the past. It used to make Sneak's ears perk up and June's after him. It lulled Mik to sleep amidst the booming symphony of evening mortars. Grecco would come to it from far across a field.

The dark brindle male froze, turned towards Chris and cocked his head. His dark eyes twinkled as they stared at each other. Chris reached out with both hands and ruffled the fur under his cheeks before unclipping him from the tie out.

She clipped her own lead to his collar, "I don't know what fate has in store for us, but I promise you, we'll find out together. What do you say Luc? Do we make a team?"


End file.
